


There Was One

by MarnaNightingale



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-03-12
Updated: 2004-03-12
Packaged: 2017-11-27 18:04:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/664894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarnaNightingale/pseuds/MarnaNightingale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Carven and gilt,</i><br/>Old and bad -<br/>And his stroking of the hilt ...<br/>~ Dorothy Parker</p>
            </blockquote>





	There Was One

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Birthday, [](http://fairestcat.livejournal.com/profile)[**fairestcat**](http://fairestcat.livejournal.com/)!
> 
> A sort of joint project with [](http://gryphons-lair.livejournal.com/profile)[**gryphons_lair**](http://gryphons-lair.livejournal.com/) for The Unbirthday of The Cat to love her and hug her and give her Sparrington. With Swords. All the shiny that fits...

_Carven and gilt,_  
Old and bad -  
And his stroking of the hilt ...  
~ Dorothy Parker

It is a beautiful sword. The man who made it for him knows his trade, knows it and loves it, and the swords he makes fit the hands that wield them as if their maker had done his work with every line, every muscle and tendon of hand and arm, before his eyes as he laboured over the hand’s perfect complement. They fit as if he could see into the future, could anticipate every time one of his creations would be drawn from its sheath and what their owners would demand of them, and prepare them to meet each moment perfectly.

A fool, seeking to understand the value of such a thing, would look at the gold filigree, at the shining metals and the elegant carving, just as a fool seeking to understand the value of the man who wears it might look to the tailoring of the blue serge, count the lines of gold braid, glance at the marks of rank.

The man who watches from the shadows near the docks is no fool, and while he loves shiny things dearly, sometimes too dearly, he has learned to guard his vision when he looks at them, and he is not easily blinded. He sees the gold for what it is -- signs for those with eyes to see and wit to understand that what lies within is a precious thing, worthy of fine casing. He sees the filigree and the braid, but h e is looking beneath them, at power and strength and cold, deadly purpose.

It is a beautiful sword, and he likes to look at it, as he likes to look at its owner, as he likes to look at all beautiful things, but he does not value it at its appearance, nor for what it would sell for. He values the sword for what it can buy, for what it has bought over and over: the return, safe and whole and stepping onto the dock at Port Royal once again, of the man who owns it.

It is a sword that is used, not carried for show, and it has become as much a part of its owner as are the sinews of his arm, or the sharpness of his vision. His easy possession of it is no more disturbed by the fact that it is the product of another man's dreams and passions than his self-pos session is disrupted by his own -- when one pauses to think of it -- similar genesis.

He handles it familiarly, comfortably, his left hand upon it as often as not. Usually he is all unconscious of his actions. He is a man who has learnt to hide his emotions at need, to ensure that his face is calm and his carriage erect and easy, the discipline of the service and his natural reserve combining to make him a hard man to read, if one does not know him well, but his hands are accustomed to expressing themselves with hemp and steel, and where he is reticent, they tell tales.

It is a beautiful sword, but -- _damn me_ , the man in the shadows thinks,  
 _four months. Four **months** , and if he doesn’t stop **petting** that never-to-be-sufficiently-damned bloody thing and get off that dock ..._.

Jack stared, transfixed, at the long, strong hand that drifted affectionately over the shining hilt, palm cupping the pommel, fingers tracing the elegant lines of filigree, as James spoke quietly to his First Lieutenant. While they consulted, James's wayward left hand closed about the hilt, released. Closed again, more gently. As they strode past the portmaster and turned towards the fort, his fingers wandered down to wrap gently over the cup guard, enjoying the rounded weight; returned to the hilt again. Clasped. Stroked once, twice, and Jack, following softly in the lengthening shadows near the high stone walls, bit his lip, eyes widening as the restless hand returned to enfold the pommel, fingers twisting up and down the hilt once more.

They had reached Gillette's lodgings, now, and James stood for a moment by the door, caught in a last, firey shaft of sunlight, listening. Threw his head back, suddenly, laughing, as his fingers closed once more, hard around the cool metal.

In the shadows, a hungry, predatory grin darkly echoed the flash of sunlit gold.

As James reached out to clap Gillette's shoulder in farewell, Jack was away, running silently, guessing, gambling, sliding through crowds and alleys on cat's feet. Waiting, almost invisible in the growing dusk, until James appeared, walking briskly now, headed for the tavern where Jack liked to spend long, lazy afternoons in port.

Jack reached out and tapped his shoulder as he passed the alley. As James half-turned, starting, Jack grabbed that taunting hand, grabbed both hands, in fact, and, turning James so that his back was against rough stone wall and they were mostly concealed from passers-by, brought the right one instead fiercely down on his aching, heavy groin. The next few moments were chaos and confusion, Jack trying to simultaneously drag James deeper into the alley and smash his mouth onto James's lips, groaning at the sensation of James's calloused hand closing fiercely around him through his breeches, James working him through the fabric, kissing him hungrily, trying to demand explanations, keeping them from falling. Finally, laughing, stumbling, they fetched up at the very back of the alley, hidden in the soft Caribbean night, two shadows blending into a hundred.

"Jack," James managed around frantic kisses, snaking his free hand up to tighten in the thick locks at Jack's nape, "Jack...yes...missed," Jack groaned open mouthed against him and began to fumble with his buttons, nudging and pressing James's rapidly-hardening prick, freeing it ... "God, Jack, but... shouldn't... ahh... home... bed... wait?"

A snarl answered him. A snarl and a hard hand in his hair, scattering powder over his coat and combing out the ribbon that held his queue with shaking fingers, knocking his wig to the ground, pulling him against that greedy mouth that nibbled and bit his lips and thrust an imperative tongue into his mouth as Jack's hips writhed against his own, as Jack's other hand came down on their straining members, smashing them even more tightly together, enclosing James's own hand, guiding it, short brisk strokes that set James's head spinning, the hand on his hair pulling him in, twisting him away from the wall, urging his head back so warm lips and sharp teeth could fasten on soft skin. Urgent kisses and frantic bites scattered over his neck, his jaw, finding the sensitive spot behind his ear and assailing it with a tongue tip that stroked and pressed. Moved away down his neck, leaving fire in its wake.

Jack's mouth fastened on the join of James's neck and shoulder, sucking, biting, until James's knees began to buckle, and the hand curled in his hair _tugged_ and he was kneeling. Gasping, open-mouthed, looking around frantically... _there_. Jack's prick in his mouth, familiar taste, familiar scent, unfamiliar feel of earth beneath him. James took him in. Pulled back, teasing with his tongue on the underside, laving the sensitive knot below the head with his tongue, taking the head into his mouth, gently probing. Pulled a way again to look up. Gleam of gold teeth, glimmer of coal-burning eyes, low-voiced, hungry growl. Swallowed him again, bringing a hand to Jack's calf, exploring. Enjoying. Teasing behind a knee, tickling. Laughing in his throat, around the straining flesh that filled it, at the complicated response. Enjoying the buckling knees, the twisting hips, as the vibration from his laughter caressed Jack's shaft. Traced his tongue along the underside of his shaft, taking his time, savouring this moment, this man, as his hand wandered further, clever fingers raking down a sensitive inner thigh, palm moving to shape the juncture between thigh and arse, his other hand coming up now to stroke and squeeze, strong fingers digging into Jack's hips, pressing him against the stone, a hand wandering into the open breeches, wrapping around the base of the shaft, squeezing, moving lower, cupping him, sliding further and pressing, searching, brushing. James's other hand curved around Jack's hip, pressing him into the wall, holding him steady.

One hand on the back of his head, the other twisting through his hair, stroking, pulling. Jack's voice, husky with desire and the need to be quiet, pouring out endearments, encouragement, poetry, filth, an endless stream of words like music.

Jack's hands tightened on his head, and the tone of his babble became sharper, imperative. James drew away, briefly, to tease one last time, nimble tongue skating around the head, hot breath washing down over the shaft, teeth nipping lightly, until the fingers twining almost painfully in his hair made it clear that Jack's patience, never famous, was exhausted and he leaned forward, taking him in, letting Jack set the pace now, bracing himself against the twisting hips, his other hand still pressing, seeking, until Jack spent himself at last with a muffled cry and sagged against the wall, twisting and shuddering gently as James's tongue lazily cleaned him.

Jack slid bonelessly to his knees beside James and their mouths met, more gently now, as James shifted weight from his knees and relaxed into Jack and their arms crept around each other and hands relearnt the shape of bone and muscle.

Jack's hand stroked down James's spine, circling, gliding, lower and lower until he was scratching gentle patterns in the small of his back, tracing lazy designs onto the upper slope of his arse, making him shudder. James moaned against his mouth and deepened the kiss, and Jack chuckled.

"Thought you wanted to get home first, mate", he said, lips leaving James's mouth to drift over his cheek and find the soft skin under his ear again.

James tightened his hold and trailed kisses over Jack's neck and shoulder. Pulled back to meet his eyes in the moonlight.

"I am home."

James gasped as wiry arms tightened around him, and his head spun as he was lifted, moved, settled on Jack's lap, kissed hungrily. Busy hands at his waist, sliding under his shirt, tracing the muscles of his belly until he gasped, teasing his navel, gliding up over his ribs to pinch small, pebbled nipples, drawing forth a wrenching, needing moan.

Something in the feel of the kisses changed, and he opened his eyes to see Jack's feyest grin. "D'ye think you can stand up, love?"

He started to scramble to his feet, stumbled.

"Easy, there!" and he was caught, held, righted. Pressed between cool stones in the back and warm, wriggling privateer in the front, splendid.

Jack was kissing him again, kissing him and running those clever fingers through his hair, down his chest, back under his shirt, scratching and soothing and stroking, making him twist restlessly, seeking, pressing his swollen member against Jack's hip only to have Jack shift, turn, dance away, return.

Warm lips moved down his neck once more, nuzzling, licking, and this time he felt his shirt being eased up until it bunched under his arms and then those lips were on him, finding his nipples with achingly gentle licks, soft sucking and grazings that made him swear, softly, less inventive than Jack, perhaps, but, Jack had assured him, quite as beautiful on the ear, and with far better command of complex phrases. Usually.

"Christ, Jack, God, so _good_ , oh -- evil. Evil bastard, love, Jack, love you, bastard, torturing heartless piratical teasing ... you'd sail to England via the Antipodes just for the trip, wouldn't you, yes, oh yes, please love yes, please there, oh Christ, don't stop ... Bastard! Bastard, love you, oh Christ, please" he chanted as Jack's mouth dipped, swirled, took its own leisurely route south, finally alighting against the soft skin sheltered inside the curve of a hipbone, kissing, nipping, taunting. He pulled back and looked up to find James's head thrown back, resting against the stone wall, and memory flashed.

He nipped, sharply, once, twice, until James's head came sluggishly forward and his eyes opened, blinked, focussed on his face. Registered the import of the spreading, wicked grin there and groaned.

"Eh, what a sight you are by moonlight, love," Jack said softly, enjoying the widening eyes, the hitch of breath, the quick, reflexive glances at the mouth of the alley. He waited for James's gaze to return to him and freeze there, transfixed.

Sure now of his audience, he returned to his ministrations, working his way across the pale, silky skin, savouring, until the writhing of James's hips reached a frantic pitch. Pulled back. Licked his lips once, twice, wetting them thoroughly, met James's dazed eyes for a long, heated moment. Opened his mouth and surged forward...

To wrap his lips around the hilt of the sword that still hung, forgotten, at James's hip. Grinned at the agonized muffled wail, and took it deeper, moving his head in a twisting motion that drove James mad when he plied it on him. Pulled back. Looked up again to see desperate green eyes in the moonlight, and ran his tongue around the pommel, flicking, taunting. Knelt back for a moment, tightening his grip on his shaking lover's hips, then surged forward once more.

Sword of flesh, now, and it was good, so good, with James's fluids weeping generously from the tip, familiar savoury taste and scent of musk filling his senses, soothing his soul, as he held James steady and set a fast, sharp pace, taking him in and dragging close-pressed lips over the shaft, swipe of tongue over the head, letting him pop out and taking him again, driving him higher and higher, keeping him just this side of release for just a little longer, growling warningly when James's hands drifted to his hair, began to tighten. Hummed in approval as they relaxed, stroked instead of compelled. He hummed again, just for the fun of hearing James gasp with the feel of it.

He heard James's moans change, deepen, and quickened the pace, took him deeper, pulled back less, loosened his bruising grip until they were moving together, rolling together like the ocean on a good day and James was moaning higher again, trembling, gushing warm fluid into Jack's relentless mouth, and that too was like the sea.

This time it was James who oozed blissfully downwards, Jack who broke the fall, but the end was the same -- wrapped in each other's arms, each tasting themselves on the other's lips, drifting, smiling, at peace.

Jack stirred first. "Well, love? What say we go -- somewhere with a bed, eh?"

"I could use one, I believe," said James, voice still blurred, and they struggled to their feet, and set about putting themselves to rights.

They set out for James's living quarters, leaning on one another companionably, looking no worse for wear, they surmised from the amused looks and nods they collected, than any other two friends who'd been out on the tiles. No worse, but no better, either. "Honestly, Jack, wouldn't you think we'd be past this by now?" said James, blushing slightly.

"Well first of all, I admit to hopin' that the day we're completely past this sort of lark is a long, long time comin'. And secondly, James, _how_ many times must I tell you that it's a low, wanton, dangerous trick to be makin' shameless love to yer own weapon in public like that?"

James turned. Blushed more deeply still, then grinned. "At least one more time, Captain Sparrow. As always."˛

**Author's Note:**

> Shameless fetishization of the very tools of the oppressor, the means by which we pirates are kept helpless and writh ing under the iron hand of the ... nevermind.
> 
> Minor wig abuse.
> 
> Administrivia:
> 
> Jack belongs to James. James belongs to Jack.
> 
> Captain Jack Sparrow and Commodore James Norrington belong to Johnny Depp and Jack Davenport, who made them move, breathe, fight, laugh, and live, to the scriptwriters who made them babble and snark, and to the Mouse who pays the bills.
> 
> Johnny Depp and Jack Davenport belong to themselves.
> 
> None of the above, alas, belong to me, though the reverse is a very real possibility, and they have therefore been commandeered without permission, profit, or hope of any reward past a certain amount of judicious squeeing.
> 
> Take what you can, have them bathed and back on the set for the next movie, I say. ARRR!
> 
> Please don't sue me, flame me, or let the Commodore hurt me. Wait, belay that last...don't let him harm me.


End file.
